Category: not baseball

Things have been dour here, lately. I was thinking we needed to talk cricket, today. And, as if by magic, dear e. sent this awesome shot of President Hussein getting schooled by Brian Lara (Mr. 400).

The IPL has started in South Africa. India’s biggest sporting event was moved due to security concerns to SA. The first few matches have already pit Shane Warne, Kevin Pietersen and Andrew Flintoff against each other. I think no one won. I will try and catch some on youtube or elsewhere. The IPL Page 2 site from cricinfo is quite, um, interesting?

I haven’t watched a live cricket match, in person, since … I don’t know. ’91? Wait, maybe ’96? I have to get this right. Hold on. West Indies in Pakistan, December 1990. I remember Wasim Akram. Look at that second inning stat-line: 9 0 28 5. Glorious. And that Zahid Fazal. Man, I hated that guy. He represented the crushing of all my cricketing dreams. Insofar as a mediocre bat can make it into the national team – I believe I deserved that spot. He just sucked. Anyways. That was the last time I went to Gaddafi Stadium until recently.

By the end of the 7th inning, it was clear to everyone that Gavin Floyd was pitching a no-hitter. A no-hitter with a run, no less.

At the top of the ninth, he took the mound to a standing ovation. And stood there, alone, throwing pitches.

See, earlier that day, I had wanted to go to my first ball game of this season. So, I emailed the usual suspects and lo and behold raver comes up with these awesome free tickets. Providence, you know. It was utterly beautiful at the park. The sky cleared up – the breeze – the game. After months in the darkness of Chicago’s coldest winter, I felt as if I had lungs to breathe.

And suddenly this good, nay pretty great night, was about to enter legendary status. I could witness a no-hitter.

The human mind is a funny thing. Well, mine is. I stood there, clapping and hollering, and wishing, wishing more than anything I have wished for, that Gavin would get this no-hitter. I wanted it for him. I wanted it because if it happened, it would be a sign. A clear indication that the impossibilities amassed on my shoulders could dissipate. Hope, right.

That moment, at the top of the ninth, with one out – that was a great moment. That’s what sports can do for you – give you air for your lungs.

“Through the same passes from time immemorial warlike races had swept down on the sun-steeped plains of the Five Rivers
and rich alluvial tracts of the Ganges and Jumna to conquer the effete dwellers therein and subdue them to their will. In India history repeats itself with monotonous sameness. In its enervating plains, far removed from the invigorating sea-breeze and the bracing cold of the mountain ranges, the keen eye, undaunted heart, and relentless arm of the successive hardy northern immigrants slowly but surely tend to change to the placid look, folded hands and brooding mind of the Eastern Sage, who, content to dream his dream of life, wearily turns from the conflict and dire struggle for existence, time after time introduced by the more warlike northern conquerors ever coming and going like the monsoon storms.” W. D. Frazer, British India, 1896.